


Papa Got a Brand New Bag

by Geelady



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geelady/pseuds/Geelady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From an anonymous prompt at Mentalist KINK MEME: "Can someone do something with Papa Jane x Patrick please? Or Papa Jane somehow manipulating Patrick into agreeing to a scheme of selling(/auctioning?) his body/virginity (somehow convincing him it'd be beneficial for him?). Interested in reading Patrick's thoughts about Papa in such scenarios too."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Papa Got a Brand New Bag

Papa Got Brand New Bag  
By GeeLady (GE Waldo)  
Pairings: Multiples. None specific.  
Summary: Patrick Jane is 18 and his unsavoury dad’s got a new bag of tricks for not only fast-tracking his son to manhood but bringing in some bigger coin.  
Warnings! non-con, prostitution of a minor, incest.  
*From an anonymous prompt at Mentalist Kink Meme: “Can someone do something with Papa Jane x Patrick please? Or Papa Jane somehow manipulating Patrick into agreeing to a scheme of selling(/auctioning?) his body/virginity (somehow convincing him it'd be beneficial for him?). Interested in reading Patrick's thoughts about Papa in such scenarios too.”

This story mostly takes place as a single, long flashback, but it begins in the CBI’s attic, present day.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lisbon found him in the attic. Jane had left his cell phone on the couch in her office. He had forgotten the call he was supposed to make to the family to offer them his sympathies (not because it was standard procedure for Jane to call the family of a victim the team - but mostly he - had failed to bring home), but because the grieving father had requested it – to thank Jane for trying so hard to save his daughter, and lastly Jane had also forgotten his tea.

The phone and the tea Lisbon could help him with, the call he would have to field on his own. “This was a tough case.” She said as way of greeting.

Jane looked over his shoulder at her. He was seated on the rickety desk beneath the grimy window, looking out over the tar-covered roof to the few trees beyond, the only greenery visible from the dingy room. Sometimes Lisbon wondered if Jane hung around the attic because it reflected how he sometimes felt; empty, useless and neglected? “But especially tough on you.”

Jane did not nod to that. “After what she went through, even coming home, she wouldn’t have been the same.”

“No.” Lisbon agreed. “Maybe not. But she would have healed eventually, moved on.”

“Yes.” He nodded, “but not the same.”

“This case really got under your skin, didn’t it?” Lisbon was about to say that she wasn’t trying to pry but actually she was. Jane had been acting off, withdrawn, on edge, even angry, for almost the duration and it disturbed her that she could not pinpoint why. “Why? Because she was so young?”

Jane recalled the photos of the young woman forced into months of sex and violence for a collection of local notorious gang-bangers. Eighteen years old and, contrary to what the papers had written, not a promising young girl with a bright future, but one who had gotten caught up in drugs and prostitution at the tender age of fifteen or younger, one who had run away from home on several occasions, one who had, at some point in her young life, ceased to care about herself or any hope for a better existence. A girl who had given up the fight for the good, happy years almost before they had begun.

“Because no one fought for her,” He said, “when she no longer could.” Jane waved a limp hand at Lisbon. “Oh the dad cries and pretends to be broken up...but where was he when she was sneaking out at twelve? Or bringing him home his beer at eleven at night so he could get even drunker?”

“People aren’t perfect, Jane.”

“You know it takes a year of training to become a licensed hairdresser in this State.” Jane remarked. “But any asshole can become a father.”

Lisbon had so rarely heard Jane swear that it shocked her a little. “Parents can share much of the blame, I agree. I know all about drunks, my dad was one. I know what it’s like to live with an alcoholic.” Lisbon handed him his tea and sat down on the room’s equally rickety chair. 

“What about your father?” She asked quietly, hoping he would not clam up. She still knew so little about him, even after four years of working together side by side every day. “What was he like?” She asked. That had to be what was bothering him so much, and why he had not made the call to the grieving dad. Maybe Jane was afraid of what he might say to him.

Jane looked down at her, and she could see the emotions rolling across his face like the hint of a storm on the prairie. He was silent for a few seconds, a pocket of still air before the coming fury. Or perhaps it was a mere gentle rain that would break – she could not guess which. 

“He was a miserable, lying, hateful son-of-a-bitch...” 

 

XXX

...“Come on, Paddy, hurry the hell up! This guy and his money ain’t gonna’ wait all day.”

Patrick, his blonde son with all the freshness of his almost eighteen years in his step, emerged from the bathroom of their cramped caravan. His hair was freshly washed, he was wearing the faded jeans Alex Jane had bought him the day before, and the silky shirt open by six buttons from the top, all hanging handsomely on his strong well developed young body like gift wrapping. 

Alex thanked his lucky stars that his only son had inherited his mother’s angelic looks and golden curls, but his smarts. Looking at his hot, young money-maker, he decided he would ask the customer for another couple of hundred. The guy would get an instant hard-on once he got a load of what was on the menu. “You look great.”

“I don’t want to do this, dad.”

Alex sighed. “Paddy, we talked about this-“

“Stop calling me Paddy – that’s a name you give to a dog. It’s Patrick.”

Alex Jane used all his expertise in spinning the lie to reassure his son. “This is the only way. You know they’re going to kick us out of the circuit if I can’t come up with the money by the end of the month. We’ve got eight weeks to raise ten thousand dollars or we’re gone – out – for good! You want that to happen to your old man?”

Patrick looked down and away, but the struggle was still there in his eyes. “No, but this guy wants – “

“-all he wants is some fun, a little affection, you know, let him touch your hair and sit beside you, have a nice chat, maybe a few kisses – nothing beyond that, and we’ll be five hundred closer to getting the committee off our backs.”

“But how many times am I going to have to do this?”

“Well, as many as we need, but we’ll see, okay? In the meantime I’m working on a plan to get the money another way. We’ll combine the stashes and be home-free. Okay? Do it for your old man? Come on - you’ll be great! You’re the best student I ever had – you’re fantastic as conning people – a fucking genius. A real chip off the ol’ block.”

Patrick sighed. Alex could see the nervousness in him. “Look, you and Angie been hitting it off haven’t you?”

“We haven’t done anything but kiss a few times.”

“Well that’s all you’ll be doing here.” Alex insisted, taking his son firmly by his broad shoulders. “I mean look at you. Who could resist? You’re gorgeous. You’re a goddamn killer.” He raked the fingers of right hand through his son’s silky curls. “Let’s mess that up a bit – looks sexier for the customer.”

Patrick moved his head away and sighed again, but he seemed resigned to going ahead with it, and Alex smiled. “Trust me; it’ll make more of a man outta’ you and you’ll knock ‘im dead, plus you’ll leave with a wad of cash in your pocket. Twenty minutes – tops, and you’re outta’ there.”

“Where’m I meeting him?” Patrick asked, the ocean blue of his eyes staring out into the night. The lights of the massive tents lit up the entire compound and all the trees and cars in the parking lots beyond.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

Alex led his son to an empty animal tent. Inside was a make-shift stall from where evidently a horse had been recently moved. Thankfully, the animal’s handlers had shovelled out any shit and laid down a thick quilt as he had instructed them (with a fifty dollar bill to keep quiet about it), earlier.

“Here?” Patrick asked. “I’m meeting this guy in an animal barn?”

Alex was growing tired of his son’s whining. “What were you were expecting - the Holiday Inn?”

Since there were no chairs, Patrick sat cross-legged on the bumpy surface. “So where is he? And who is he?”

Alex smiled self-assuredly. “He’ll be here, don’t worry. And who he is, is a customer willing to pay us a cool half grand for a few minutes with the best looking kid in the whole damn freak-show.” Alex smiled once more before leaving the stall. “Make me proud, son.” He said, “And even more important - make us rich.”

His father left and Patrick spent a few minutes waiting and wondering who the guy would be. His skin was already crawling, but if his dad was right, and he always seemed to be, they were about to be kicked off the circuit for good. He would be saving both their asses.

A man’s deep voice said from around the corner “Hey kid. You here?”

Patrick sat up straighter. “Yeah. Are you-?”

“Jones, yeah. That’s me. Your dad sent me.”

Patrick knew the name was probably made-up but whatever. “You got the money?” Business was business.

A tall, beefed-up man with the sun-browned-est skin he’d ever seen appeared around the corner. He was shaved bald and his neck was covered in tattoos. He was wearing sweat pants, dark glasses and a heavy leather coat. “Sure.” He said, tossing him an envelope and breaking out into a wide smile. The fellow passed from the weak light of the tent entrance into the near dark and for a moment all Patrick could see were two white eyes and a full set of teeth. “You can count it if you want.” He said. “It’s all there.” 

The man who called himself Jones opened the wooden partition with a creak and stepped inside, closing it behind him. From a long paper bag he pulled a bottle of dark liquor and held it out for Patrick to see. “And it’s all right here, too.” He said chuckling. “Let’s have a party.”

Jones sat down next to him but not too close. In fact after he shed his thick coat the first thing he did was twist off the bottle’s tin cap. “You up for a few?”

Patrick had never tasted the stuff. “Dad doesn’t let me drink. He says it dulls the reflexes.”

Jones shrugged. “I suppose he’s right. He’s a smart guy, your dad. You ought to listen to him, only I think he’d be okay with you having one taste. I mean you’re what – almost eighteen? And aint’ it your birthday soon? I thought Alex said something about that.”

“In four months it’s my birthday.” 

“Oh. Well then, suit yourself.” Jones tipped back the bottle and took a swallow. He coughed a bit, shaking his head. “Oh my lord, that’s sweet. Alex is right though, liquor dulls the mind too but, man, what a way to go.” He smiled, clearly enjoying just sitting there and drinking.

Patrick could smell the liquid from where he sat two feet away. It smelled sweet, not like most other liquors he had sniffed or had a taste of – most were horribly bitter stuff that he’d vowed never to touch again. But this smelled almost like caramel.

Jones noticed him sniffing the air. “You sure you don’t want to try just a sip? I mean if you hate it, you hate it, right? There’s nothing says you have to drink anymore.” Jones handed him the bottle and Patrick, not wanting to appear to be a bad sport, accepted it, locking his lips around the spout and tipping it back. He took too much in and had to cough to get it all past his tongue. It was strong and there was some bitterness but mostly it was sweet. It also left his oesophagus and stomach on fire. But after a moment delicious fingers of warmth spread from his guts to the tips of his toes, making them tingle. “That stuff’s pretty good.” He said. The liquid heat was a pleasing jolt to all of his senses. 

Jones took the bottle back and swallowed another jigger. They spent the next half hour like that, handing the bottle back and forth, and not long after they were both splitting a gut and telling dirty jokes.

Soon the bottle was empty and Jones flung it aside. “Damn that was good.” He turned to look at his young friend for the evening. Alex hadn’t been lying when he’d praised his son’s looks and physical attributes to him over the phone the previous day. Jones enjoyed a few moments of taking in the sight of his very special date for the evening. 

The kid was at that stage of growth where the gangly awkwardness of childhood was well behind him but the thickening middle of maturity was still far off. Alex had worked his son hard, and all that physical labour had paid off. Beneath the fabric of the faded jeans were well muscled legs, and beneath the loose fitting silk shirt was the ripped form of an athlete. His skin was smooth and fresh and evenly tanned to just a shade above golden. 

The youth’s head was crowned with a mix of soft, natural curls the colours of beige and beach-babe blonde. But his face, his face was the thing that set Jones’ heart to a steady hard rhythm and his cock to twitching like a spring buck. The kid was a fucking dream. Ocean blue eyes, perfect teeth displayed in a stunning smile and strong but even features that could have graced any ten dollar magazine on the rack.

“Damn good. Just like you, Patrick. You look good yourself.”

Jones scooted over and put his right hand on Patrick’s left thigh. “You are a good looking young man, Patrick, do you know that?” He said to him.

Patrick was enjoying himself. The last of the Southern Comfort was still sloshing around in his stomach, and he felt great. Better than he ever had in his life. “Dad keeps telling me so. I guess he’s right.” Patrick found that hilarious and doubled over in laughter.

Jones, who had swiftly sobered up, was watched him, delightedly. “Yeah, you are a fine looking kid. You’re dad was right, wasn’t he, golden boy?” Jones whispering - mostly to himself. “Jesus-god-fuck-me-blind, you are tasty. The sweetest one I’ve seen yet and I’ve had plenty. My little man’s got a hard-on ache for you right now.” 

“Hmm?”

Jones scooted closer until their thighs were touching. “How about a little taste of sugar?” Without any further warning Jones laced his thick fingers through Patrick’s dishevelled curls and turned the youth’s head so he was facing him, and clamped his own lips on the young man’s, shoving his tongue rudely inside the other’s mouth until the younger man gagged.

“Hey.” Patrick tired to push the other man’s insistent mouth away but his arms wouldn’t work properly. The stronger Jones ignored the youth’s struggles and chuckled out of the corner of his mouth while he dove his tongue in even deeper and began to unbutton the silky shirt worn by his date. There were few buttons to unfasten and in under a minute he was tugging and pulling it off the blonde with force, laughing when one of its side seams ripped.

When Patrick started to struggle in earnest, Jones frowned and spoke sharply. “Hey – I’m paying your old man for some honey and I plan to get it, kid. Sit still.” Jones pushed Patrick down on the dirty blanket and worked to open the button-fly on his jeans. 

“Heh-heh.” Jones leered when he saw the teenager was wearing no underwear. “Your dad’s idea I’ll bet – now that’s customer service.”

Patrick tried to sit up and Jones pushed him back down. When Patrick tried to push the older man’s hands off his privates and crawl away, Jones pushed him down even harder. When Patrick hauled back and tried to punch the older man in the face, Jones just laughed aloud and slapped Patrick across the face, then pinned him down with one massive knee. 

They struggled on that way for a minute, Patrick swinging wildly while Jones laughed and slapped the youth over and over, his breath getting ragged, his excitement growing, his cock pushing at his own jeans, begging for attention.

“Come on, baby, hit me again heh-heh.” Jones mocked, smiling, enjoying himself. “I like the feisty ones, makes it that much hotter. Oh, yea-a-a-h...” 

Jones let out a long, soft sigh of appreciation when he finally got the kid’s jeans all the way off. “Little man, you are a sweet sight indeed.” He said, running his hands over the Patrick’s gentiles, playing with them a little and admiring their youthful pinkness. “You, little blonde buck, are abso-fucking hot. Ya’ got the Jones seal of approval.”

With one final blow, Jones rendered the younger man helpless. A tiny trickle of blood ran from Patrick’s nose to his lip. Jones ignored it and flipped the younger man on his belly. Then he unzipped his own jeans and let his swollen cock bob free. He rolled on a pre-lubed condom and, not bothering to work a finger or two inside Patrick’s anus, forced his own member passed the small sphincter until he was engulfed in the youth’s rectum. “Virgin-sweetness...” 

XXXXXXX

“You hit him!” Alex grabbed the bigger man by his dirty shirt-collar. “You hit my fucking kid!”

It was nothing for Jones to shrug off the hung-over father’s grip. “Back off, asshole. I paid good money to get what I wanted, and he wasn’t giving it up.”

Alex stood apart from him, breathing hard, furious that the man had broken the deal. “I said not to hurt him, you faggot. His face is what’s going to get us outta’ this mess. I want an extra two hundred for the damage.”

“Fuck you.” Jones hissed.

“My kid’s all I got asshole and you fucking beat him up?”

Jones leaned in and for the first time Alex was attuned to the danger of the man. “Well then maybe you ought not to be renting him out, “Dad”.” Jones, feeling not the least bit guilty for what had occurred, curled his lip at the boy’s father. “I feel sorry for the kid, with a sleaze like you for a father.”

Alex stormed back into the caravan to check on the sleeping Patrick. His son had staggered home around one in the morning with a bloody nose and a cut on his lip, his jeans un-done and his shirt missing. Alex had said the proper soothing things and helped him clean-up then sent him to bed with two aspirin.

The next day he had hunted up Jones.

Patrick was still asleep and Alex tucked the blanket up around his shoulders, frowning at the swollen lip. At least Jones hadn’t given him a black eye or broken his nose. “Sorry kid.” Alex muttered and went to find some breakfast.

 

XXXX

“Patrick?” Alex had searched almost the entire grounds to no avail. “Hey anyone seen my kid? Anyone seen Paddy?” Alex had asked around to everyone he knew, except at one caravan. He wasn’t fond of the owners of this trailer and they were equally distrustful of him, but it was where Angie lived, the nineteen year old apple of his son’s eye. 

“Mister Ruskin?” Alex called through the window nearest the door. “It’s Alex - Patrick’s dad.”

The door opened and Regge’ Ruskin, a slim blonde fellow with a disdainful eye for the Jane family, looked out. “You looking for Patrick. He and Angie took off this morning on her Honda. They probably went to the river.”

Alex was about to leave. “Thanks.”

“Hey Jane.” Ruskin said. “Patrick okay? He looked pretty bad this morning, like somebody beat him up.”

Alex could see the suspicion playing about Ruskin’s eyes. “Naw.” Alex lied. “He got into a wrestling match with the Caruso brothers and lost.”

Ruskin questioned the lie. “I’ve never known them to be so rough with him before.” 

Alex frowned. “Well this time they were.” He snapped and walked away.

Alex found them at the river. And he found the small suitcase Angela Ruskin had packed, and the grey rucksack his son had packed. Alex, his eyes and manner dark and dangerous, stared at his son. “You planning on a trip, Paddy?”

Patrick stared defiantly back at his dad. “Me and Angie are going.”

“Going where?”

“Away.” She answered, standing her ground. “Away from here. I’m taking Patrick and we’re going to my aunt’s house in L.A.” She explained, her expression hateful. “I’m taking him away from you.”

Alex saw red and grabbed his son by his shirt. “No fucking little ho’ is going to take my son anywhere. No goddamn chance in hell.” Alex began hauling Patrick to the hatchback Toyota, ignoring the rucksack altogether. “Get in.” Alex opened the door while Patrick tried to twist out of his grip.

“Let me go dad. I’m leaving.”

Alex looked at Angie who had had an inexplicable influence over his son ever since they’d met a year previous, and resisted the urge to hit her. Instead he hauled back one angry fist and struck Patrick across the head, being careful not to damage any more of his face. “And I said you’re coming home with me.”

Alex slammed the door and said over his shoulder to Angela. “Go home, girl, your father is worried.”

Ales dragged his protesting son into their caravan and threw him on his single cot. “What the fuck do you mean by trying to run off like that? Don’t you know it’ll be the ruin of us?”

“The ruin of you, you mean.”

Alex paced the confined space, rubbing his hand across his face. “Patrick, I know things didn’t go very well last night but that’s no reason to abandon your ol’ man to the wolves.”

“Didn’t go well?? He raped me, dad.”

“We made eight hundred bucks from him.” Alex thought it wise to up the amount to underline to Patrick how lucrative the business could be. “Next time-“

Patrick stared at his father like he was insane. “Next time? There isn’t going to be a next time – no! – I’m never doing that again.”

Alex heard the stubbornness in his son’s voice, recognizing it for what it was – the same level of stubbornness had existed in the boy’s mother and once it arrived, it was unmovable. Alex knew there was only one treatment for it. He slapped the boy so hard it knocked Patrick to the floor. 

Alex stood over him. “You are going to stay with me until this is done. I raised you when that idiot mother of yours couldn’t. I hung around and took care of your sorry ass for eighteen years. Now you owe me, and you’re going to pay me back.”

Watching Patrick seated on the floor, tears on his face, made Alex even angrier. His wife had left him by dying and now his son was going to leave. His son was all he’d had for all these lonely years. His only companion and his only comfort. All the rage and disappointment in his son coalesced into a surge of white hot lust. Alex decided he missed that comfort. “In fact, the payments begin right now.”

Alex grabbed his son by the hair and tore at his jeans, taking his son in a headlock and making him walk backwards until they were both seated on the larger bed at the opposite end of the caravan. Alex kept his arm locked in place, ignoring Patrick’s strangled gasps for air and feeble calls begging for him to stop. A glance at the windows to make sure they were all closed and the curtains drawn, and Alex whispered into his poor son’s ear. “I love you, Patrick. And I need you to show me how much you love me.”

It was only when his member was deep inside his own son that Patrick stopped struggling. Alex whispered in his ear. “Oh, yes, baby, that’s good. I love you so much...”

 

Patrick didn’t hear his father’s voice. The only noises in his ears were the creaking bed and the sickening slap of flesh on flesh. In his head, however, was the picture of his mother, her blonde hair shining like silver in the sun, and Angie’s kind voice from the early morning when they’d made their pact to run away together. Angie was the only one with whom he could show his emotions and not be berated for it.

She was his first love and Patrick knew she’d be his only one. They were forever, he and Angie. She was kind and gentle and perfect, and he loved her.

His father he had hated ever since he could remember, even before he was old enough to have complex memories, whether good or bad. His memories of his dad, however faded they were or seeming unreal in the place in which they existed, had always felt bad. His father said he loved him, and yet Patrick had never felt that love other than his father climbing into his bed and sleeping too close to him to feel comforting.

Patrick endured the sweating thrusts from his father until his dad was spent. And he knew what came next. Alex would release him, recoil in revulsion for what he had done and then curl up on the floor with a bottle, crying and begging for his son’s forgiveness until he fell asleep in a stupor.

And Patrick would clean him up and put him to bed, but never, never say his forgiveness. 

His dad was right about one thing, without him there to help, his dad would lose everything. Nine and a half thousand dollars to go. He supposed he could stay that long, and help his dad that much, before he said goodbye forever. Perhaps he did owe his father the money. However badly his dad had treated him, Patrick hated to think of his dad on the street, so he would stay and earn it for him. Close his eyes and ears, shut out the pain and humiliation, and endure it all for a little while longer.

 

“...Money was all I ever was to my father.” Jane said quietly, his fingers twisting his wedding ring. He did that a lot whenever he was upset.

Although Jane had never looked up from his tea-cup for the entire horrible story, Lisbon hadn’t taken her eyes off him even once. So much more about her friend made sense now, the bottomless ever present sadness in his eyes, even behind the smile and the sometimes childish antics in reaction to the job and the world around him. 

“Losing her and...Strawberry,” Jane offered lastly, using his daughter’s nick-name that Lisbon was sure he had made up “was the worst day of my life. Worse than the mental hospital – worse than him.” He explained. “I opened my arrogant mouth on television and because of that they died. Because of me.”

That was why the ring and his air of a man still somehow being in a married state, wedded to the past, married to the memory of them, married to her. That was why he was so gravely focused on finding and killing Red John. It would be his apology to his family. No matter how miserable it might make him to accomplish that dangerous task, it was his atonement for what he saw as his part in their deaths. 

Angela had been his first and greatest love, his rescuer, his angel on earth. The ring wasn’t just a reminder to him of her and how deeply he had loved her, it was his hair-shirt.

“I’m sorry.” Dreadfully inadequate. Lisbon wished she had words to fix this man, so he would know that his dead wife’s love for him would not be the last during his life, however much his guilt needed it to be.

“I’m going home.” Jane said, setting his cup down and slinging his jacket over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

“Jane -“ Lisbon did not want him to leave without knowing...something more, without understanding that things, people – that his life - need not be as static and unchangeable as it might at this moment inevitably feel. 

So she stepped over to him and drew him into an unabashed bear hug, holding him tightly, holding on, waiting for him to decide to either shake off her touch and shift away from her embrace or return it. After a few seconds, his body relaxed into the sudden physical affection and put his arms around her, hesitantly at first, and then he moulded himself around her in return, becoming comfortable in her arms. 

Lisbon loved the way Jane felt and how his skin smelled. She looked forward to seeing him every single day, his voice and his smile, and his gentle face. Everything, everything...

We love you. Lisbon thought, chiding herself that she was still too much of a coward to say the words aloud. We love you...

 

...I do. 

END  
Hope this satisfied the prompt. Thanks for reading!


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